


Bitters, Sugar, Whiskey, Orange

by inlovewithnight



Category: J. Edgar (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:53:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hearing, Edgar drives away, leaving Clyde alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitters, Sugar, Whiskey, Orange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carryokee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryokee/gifts).



There are bars in the city that Clyde hasn't been to since he took the job with Edgar, located in the elegant lobbies of posh hotels. He should consider himself banned from them in more ways than one, as a Bureau man, but when Edgar drives away and leaves him standing there on the sidewalk, a chastened subordinate under the indifferent stares of Congressmen's aides and Capitol flunkies--

Well, his feet lead him of their own will to a place where he can soothe his temper and his pride.

The bar is quiet, the walls and furnishings all done up in a deep green that leaves the room swimming in the dim light, restful to Clyde's eyes after the mid-afternoon sun. He loosens his tie and smooths his hair back, catching the bartender's eye and calling the man to him with a nod.

"I'll have an old-fashioned," he says, more on a whim than out of real desire, but when the glass is placed in front of him he feels a sort of satisfaction. The first sip affirms that the drink is what he wanted; the muddled blend of bitters, sugar, whiskey, and the clean hint of the orange rind above. It reminds him of himself, in an odd kind of way, who he was before he was Bureau, before he was...

"Edgar's pet," he mutters, washing the words from his mouth with the cocktail as soon as they've met the air. Perhaps not; _pet_ implied a degree of obligation, a certain reciprocity that apparently Edgar did not necessarily feel. Perhaps wasn't capable of feeling.

He cuts that thought off before it can take root. Whatever flash of temper Edgar had shown him today, Clyde Tolson is a man of loyalty. And at the moment, a man with a very decent drink at hand. He closes his eyes and drinks, letting the whiskey layer on his tongue. The muddled flavors are distracting and settling in just the right ways, and he thinks vaguely that he ought not have stopped coming to places like this, with bartenders of talent and the kind of quiet, refined atmosphere where a man might hear himself think for as long as he wished to, and then be pleasantly distracted from those thoughts if he pleased.

Ice bumps against his teeth, unbuoyed by drink, and he sighs, swirling the cubes against the glass. A sign, really. He should pay for the drink and walk back to the Bureau. Edgar would be in his office now, venting his temper on any junior man or aide unlucky enough to come in search of a file, and if none of those were handy, on Helen. Not that that would faze her. Edgar's scenes and rages rolled off Helen Gandy like fog.

It occured to him, as it did every so often, that he ought to take Helen out for dinner, or at least buy her coffee in the Bureau canteen. It would be a chance to press her a little, discreetly of course; find out what it was she got from Edgar, what benefit she took from weathering the clouds and storms of his moods, ever faithful, armed only with typewriter, steno pad and pen, and that unyielding ramrod-straight spine that served to hold up an endless series of dowdy dresses and matronly sweaters. Clyde hadn't entirely dismissed the idea that she might carry a torch for Edgar--love and loyalty were twists in the same vine, easily mistaken for one another.

Edgar fairly glows with the passion of his convictions. Small wonder a small collection of human moths are drawn to him.

It's not a pleasant metaphor to consider over an empty drink, nor a flattering one. Clyde cuts his eyes to the left, searching down the length of the bar for the bartender, still not sure if he means to pay his tab or refill the glass.

"Could I buy you another?"

The offer comes from a young man leaning one elbow on the bar and favoring Clyde with a smile that in another time and place Clyde might have called _lovely_. He's tall, wiry rather than muscled, and his hair is like copper wire brushed smooth back against his head. Like bright pennies, even in the dim light.

Still unsettled from the twists and detours of his own thoughts, it's easy for Clyde to nod, to smile, to push his drained glass toward the bartender when the young man signals him from his watch at the far end of the bar. Let Helen be the sacrificial moth to Edgar's rages for another hour. Or even the rest of the afternoon; after the hours Clyde had put in preparing for the testimony to Congress, surely he had earned a leisurely lunch hour.

"Old-fashioneds," the young man says with a smile, taking a seat on the next stool and twining his legs lazily about its own. "My grandmother used to make them at the summer house. She called them bittered slings. I always found that a rather romantic name."

"Mine as well," Clyde says, returning the smile around the feel of something caught in his throat. "Where did your people summer? I'm sure I hear the Cape in your voice, if I'm not mistaken."

**

He doesn't take the rest of the afternoon after all; an hour of lovely young Ted's company and Clyde finds himself with a nagging headache and the series of drinks gone sour on his palate. He parries Ted's efforts to arrange dinner later in the week and catches a cab back to the Bureau, leaning his forehead against the window and silently berating himself for a fool. Where has his grace gone, his mettle, his ability to conduct conversation with a maestro's air? Vanished in the course of a single morning before Congress and a flash of Edgar's temper. A moth after all, or at least not much of a man.

He sits at his desk and listlessly shuffles papers through the rest of the day, occasionally lifting his pen to make a note here or a correction there, none of them of much substance. He's still sitting there when evening comes and the office door opens to admit Edgar, who sweeps in without missing a beat in dictating over his shoulder to Miss Gandy.

"...if you can't deliver, don't bother coming in on Monday. Over my signature, and so forth, thank you, Miss Gandy. Clyde!" Edgar stops sharp, staring over the desk at him, and Clyde's shoulders tighten just at his presence, his back straightening up. "Well, aren't you ready?"

"Ready for what?" Part of Clyde's mind wants to add _sir_ , but he isn't sure if it would come out mocking or deferential, and even less sure which he would prefer.

"Dinner, Clyde. Same as every other day. You haven't got your jacket on. Your tie's half-knotted. You're not ready to go. Come on, man, it's time to go." Edgar claps his hands sharply and then rubs them together, and Clyde automatically gets to his feet and turns to his coat rack.

"I suppose I didn't think we would be having dinner tonight."

"Of course we are. We have dinner every night."

"We didn't have lunch today." He lets a subtle emphasis fall on _lunch_ , enough to make the word linger in the air, and waits to see if it will make any difference.

There's enough of a silence that he looks over his shoulder. Edgar's frowning, his expression pinched and tight, and Clyde can see the familiar slight panic in his eyes, the emotion Edgar could never possibly talk about but that rules him more than it should. "Let's not talk about all that."

 _You questioned my loyalty_ , Clyde thinks, tightening his tie with meticulous hands. _You punished me like a child. But let's not talk about it?_

Once he gives it a thought, though, as he buttons up his coat, he realizes that no, of course they shouldn't talk about it. It wouldn't do a bit of good, and it wouldn't change anything.

"Where would you like to go tonight?" he asks instead, straightening his cuffs. "Or has Miss Gandy reserved us a table already?"

"She has. The usual place." Edgar fidgets a little, grinding the heel of his shoe against the floor. "But if you'd like to go somewhere else, why, of course we can do that."

Clyde stops in the motion of coming around the desk, feeling his eyebrows dart up. His gaze jumps to Edgar's face. It's more surprising than it ought to be, this very little bit of give. Anyone else would consider it nothing. If it _came_ from anyone else, Clyde might consider it nothing, too.

But Edgar has such a terribly difficult time releasing even the smallest bit of control. A little bit of give is an enormous effort, for him. It carries an enormous meaning.

"Thank you, Edgar," Clyde says after a moment, in which slight pause Edgar's face turns several shades deeper red. "I appreciate the offer. But the usual place will be fine. I'm in the mood for a steak, I think."

Edgar relaxes visibly, rocking upward on his toes with a smile. "They make the best steak in town."

"Yes." Clyde falls in step with him as they leave the office, letting the backs of his fingers brush against Edgar's sleeve. Edgar doesn't pull away. These small gestures, the tiny offers and acknowledgments, the deferrals and slight smiles, are the pieces that make up their personal language.

**

Edgar orders for him at dinner. It's a small matter, given that Clyde said at the office exactly what he intended to eat. Still, he can't help but feel a slight warmth at the fact that Edgar paid attention and takes the effort.

Edgar doesn't mention the hearing at all. He goes on about his usual topics, instead: ranking the agents against each other, combing over every bit of office gossip that's found its way to him (less than half, but an impressive variety nonetheless), open cases, suspected Communists. Clyde half-listens, making the expected noises at the expected intervals. He swirls his drink and watches the liquor coat the sides of the glass. He wonders how much is lost that way, with every sip. How much clings and stays behind.

"Clyde."

It takes a minute to realize that Edgar's been silent, and then broken that silence with his name. "Yes?"

Edgar's frowning at him, and Clyde draws a breath to apologize. He lets it go again as he realizes that this isn't Edgar's normal affronted frown, but something more like genuine concern.

"Are you all right, Clyde?"

"Fine, thank you." He wipes his mouth carefully and then replaces his napkin in his lap, offering Edgar a quick smile. "You were saying?"

Normally that's more than enough to set Edgar comfortably back on the path of his thoughts. But now he just keeps frowning. "You look tired."

The preparations for the hearing have involved a ridiculous number of hours. He drank away a good portion of his afternoon and is, apparently, no longer as young as he used to be, so it's catching up to him a bit. "A bit. I'm sure I'll be fine tomorrow."

Edgar pokes at the last bit of his steak. "You should take tomorrow off."

Clyde absolutely must have heard that wrong. J. Edgar Hoover has never and, to the best of what Clyde knows about him, will never give someone the day off just on a whim because they're _tired_.

"I beg your pardon, Edgar?"

"Take the day off." Edgar nods to himself firmly, the idea visibly solidifying into something like law. "Unwind a little, be ready to take a new look at everything when you come back."

"Well, that's very kind of you," Clyde says after another moment of baffled thought. "Thank you."

Edgar nods briskly, his eyes on his plate. "Maybe I'll join you."

The world must truly be ending. "Really?"

"Not for the whole day, of course. I've got too much to do. But the afternoon, maybe. I could take the afternoon off."

"That...that would be lovely." Clyde takes a drink, holding the liquor on his tongue to buy a moment that can cover his startlement. "What would you like to do?"

"Well, let's see." Edgar jabs at the food on his plate sharply, his fork clicking against the plate. "We could go up to the zoo."

Clyde blinks. "The zoo?"

"Yes. That's what it's there for, isn't it?"

"I just didn't expect it to be of any interest to you."

"I've never been, but why not? Might be a change of pace." Edgar nods to himself, a gesture Clyde knows; it's decided, then. And really, he can't imagine anything _more_ potentially, bizarrely entertaining than going to the zoo with Edgar.

"You've got a bit of something on your face, Clyde." Clyde reaches for his napkin, but Edgar shakes his head, already reaching across the table to press a handkerchief into his palm. "Here. Use this."

Clyde wipes his face, looking at Edgar in confusion, but Edgar's already turned away to signal the waiter. Clyde runs the handkerchief between his fingers, looking down at the stiff white cotton. It's perfectly clean, freshly starched and pressed. Just a bit warm from being in Edgar's pocket.

He remembers the day of his interview, when he passed a handkerchief back into Edgar's hand. He thinks--he's quite sure he's not fooling himself--that the parallel is deliberate.

He smiles as he tucks the square of cloth into his own jacket. Edgar never does anything without a purpose.

**

They meet for lunch, then take Edgar's car to the National Zoo. It's a warm, bright afternoon, and they take their time walking between the cages, staring in at the wild beasts of the world brought low and displayed before them.

Clyde lingers in front of the brown bear, watching the creature stalk back and forth in a slow arc. He's always thought of bears as something alien, distant, fearsome; part of the Wild West and all that. Attacking helpless children in the woods, or else giving a heroic woodsman a chance to prove his mettle. This one just looks confused, and rather stupid. The look on its face is almost worried as it wanders from left to right and back again, over and over, in the twelve feet across of its cage.

"Now there's a dangerous animal," Edgar says, coming up beside him. He's carrying an orange in one hand, rolling it against his palm as he squints through the bars. "We could safely exterminate the lot of those, I tell you."

"This one seems harmless." Clyde steps closer, touching the low metal barrier lightly as the bear swings out of its arc to nose through the straw at the back of the cage. "A bit sad, even."

"Don't be sentimental, Clyde. And don't let it fool you. He's a killer." Edgar nods and scores his fingernail against the orange, breaking the skin and beginning to peel it back. The scent hits Clyde's nose with a sting of sunshine and sweetness.

"Where did you get that?" he asks absently, tapping his fingers against the barrier as the bear approaches the front of the cage again.

"One of the keepers gave it to me. Apparently this thing here likes them." Edgar pulls a wedge of the orange from the skin and pops it into his own mouth, chewing loudly. The bear looks up, sniffing the air and making a low moaning sound.

"Edgar," Clyde says, but his friend has already taken another wedge from the orange and tossed it through the bars. It lands on the floor with a soft squish and the bear moans again, rising up on its hind legs and pivoting to go after it.

"Look at that." Edgar laughs and shakes his head, offering Clyde the next piece of the orange. Clyde takes it and chews mechanically, watching the bear almost dance in joy for the gift of the little piece of fruit.

Edgar repeats the whole process again--one slice for himself, one for Clyde, one for the bear--laughing all the while, then draws his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the juice from his fingers. The orange peel falls forgotten to the floor, casting up a last bit of scent that leaves the bear rooting hopefully and lucklessly through its straw.

Clyde dries his own fingers on the handkerchief Edgar gave him, twisting the cotton firmly against his skin. He feels an odd tightness in his chest, a pressure in his throat, like he's seen something that wants to have a greater meaning than he's prepared to allow it.

Handkerchiefs and oranges and whiskey, he thinks distantly, turning his eyes to the next cage. It's quite possible to build a life on those things. Or at least with them as the links between the pieces.

"Come on, Clyde," Edgar says, and when Clyde looks at him, he's smiling. It's almost a boyish smile, the closest to one he's ever seen on Edgar's face. "Let's see the elephants and the lions. Those are the whole point of a zoo, don't you think?"

"Of course," Clyde says, his own smile falling into place in return. Edgar starts walking, and as he passes Clyde, their fingers brush against each other, skin to skin in a tiny, warm shock. Neither of them reaches after it, but neither of them pulls away, and they fall into step together as they step out of the building onto the sun-warm path, leaving the scent of oranges behind.


End file.
